“I am bigger,” laughed Takamasa.
“True, but answer,” Masasada slashed, nicking Takamasa’s forearm, “how does one bring down Fuji-san?”
Takamasa winced and squinted as he considered the question. He thrust his sword forward, but it was knocked aside by Masasada’s thinner blade.
Masasada struck and drew blood. Before Takamasa could react, Masasada opened up another slit on Takamasa’s arm.
Masasada smiled. “One chop at a time. You see?” He slashed again and opened Takamasa’s shoulder. Blood sprayed and Takamasa dropped to his knees.
“Patience is a virtue,” whispered Takamasa, respectfully.
Masasada thrust down and inward. “Patience is a weapon.”

Taneshige turned, avoiding a slash. He brought his sword around, clipping Amano’s neck, causing a fan of blood to issue forth. Taneshige ducked, but could not avoid the spray. Dripping blood, wide-eyed, showing teeth, he raised his weapon and ran through the yard. Fearless Samurai turned and fled this Hellspawn. Taneshige turned a corner and slashed at a low, black shadow. His sword slipped from his blood-slick grip and he missed his mark. It was a good thing. His master’s daughter stood before him, quaking in her sandals, her robe split by the keen, crimson blade, but her flesh unmarred.

“If you do not do,” says Master, “still you have done.”
I grow tired of this. He sees me frown.
Master smiles.
I am a warrior. A Samurai.
“If you do not teach,” I smirk, “still you have taught.”
His brows come together, questioning. His head is cocked. His hand clasps my wrist and squeezes.
He holds my gaze. His thumb presses.
My blade drops and lands softly on the rushes.
“Were you a true Samurai,” he lectures, “you would have faced me fairly.”
I taste steel, then blood.
“You would be Rōnin?” he hisses.

If you slash a man’s face, urinate on it, and trample it with straw sandals, the skin will come off.
–HAGAKURE

These samurai treat us like dogs, kick us and beat us because we’re common. “My Master” is drunk on sake and snoring like a bear. I creep into his room and stab and stab …

and …

and …

something sharp pierces my back. I look down: a katana protrudes from my belly. I fall. I see now, on his futon, an empty pile of blankets. “My Lord” raises his bloodied blade. I chuckle. The irony! I die like a samurai.